Rinse, Repeat
by Pippin's Socks
Summary: 1944. Some things are left unsaid, and others just have fabulous hair. America/England.


**Title: **Rinse, Repeat**  
>Summary: <strong>1944. Some things are left unsaid, and others just have fabulous hair. **  
>Pairing(s):<strong> America/England.  
><strong>Rating: <strong>K+**  
>Warning(s):<strong> Nazis? IDEK. **  
>Words: <strong>1, 429**  
>AN:** So, this was utterly on the fly. Seriously. No idea where this came from.

* * *

><p>America had never realised how soft England's hands were before. He had always assumed, and rightly so, that he'd have calluses on his hands, worn from long days at sea - and squeezing triggers - not smooth and deft. He winced however as England tugged particularly sharply at his damp hair, and quickly reconsidered his prior statement.<p>

"Watch it." He complained, wrinkling his nose, Texas bumping up slightly with the move. He probably should've removed those before they started, but hindsight could suck it.

"Shush." England reprimanded, twisting the hair into a neat little spiral before severing it with a quick snap of the scissors. It tumbled to the floor in a perfect arc, and America huffed, blowing it astray before it landed on his trousers. "You asked me to do this, don't complain when I do."

America was about to protest that no, he had not _asked, _England had complained to him for about three hours that he wouldn't be able to _see _let alone _shoot _with all that hair in his eyes, telling him he needed a haircut, and that _he _might as well do it because of some complicated reason America was sure was bull, but England's nails dug into his scalp, effectively shutting him up, so America brooded in silence instead.

"I'm nearly done." England whispered, as if reading his mind. "So please stop fidgeting."

"I'm not." America replied, though he was, but sometimes he just liked to provoke England for the sake of it. Instead of rising to the bait however, England thwacked him smartly with the flat of the scissors. "Ow! I think I'm the only person to leave a haircut with bruises England."

"Clearly you've never had a haircut from Prussia." England quipped, but he became gentle once again, and America sighed and sagged back into the chair. England's hands were somehow different without his gloves on, and America enjoyed the feel of the frail skin threading through his hair.

"How do I look?" America joked after a while, sliding his eyes shut.

"Fit for invasion." England murmured, and America's lips quirked up. "Tilt your head." He added, and America complied, dropping it forward so his chin bumped with his chest. He felt the tickle of the scissors on the base of his neck, England's fingers – cold, seriously, maybe there was a reason he always wore gloves – at the nape of his neck.

"Gotta look good for the Nazi's," America mumbled, allowing England to gently tilt his head where he saw fit.

"Oh yes, I'm sure they will appreciate defeat at the hands of someone with fabulous hair far more." America snorted, leaning his head back again as England moved around him. For a few seconds England did nothing but smooth out America's hair, checking the length on either side, and America was about to ask what he was planning on doing when England's fingers suddenly found themselves grabbing at Texas.

America's eyes flew open, immediately alert because he was _touching _Texas, slipping them off his nose as if they were nothing more than a vanity product.

America could have grabbed him, grabbed the glasses, could have done a lot of things, but the churning in his stomach was nothing compared to the sudden lurch in his chest. His mouth was dry, and England was oblivious, and he was so _close _and America swore he could taste the tea on England's breath.

He finished gently pulling the glasses away, twisting to place them on the sideboard, and if America leant forward now, he could press a kiss to England's cheek, maybe his neck, maybe whisper the truth into his ear and admit that maybe, possibly, quite frankly he didn't mind it when England touched Texas, didn't mind it when England took that state away, because...because...

"There." England finished, holding the last lock of hair up between them. "All done."

America blinked dumbly for a few seconds, before laughing. "Planning on keeping that as a keepsake, England~?" He teased, and the older nation huffed, hair fluttering in the sharp exhale of air, and gave America a flat look. But America reached forward between them, fist closing around England's the hair flat between them. "Keep it, it would make me happy."

England flushed, and at this distance America could see the colour rise perfectly, filling the pale white with a deep red. "Why should I care if you're happy or not?"He blustered, glancing at their clasped hands as if they held some kind of deeper meaning. Perhaps they did, America was never very good at understanding what England saw, and the multiple levels beneath it.

"Well, I am here to rescue you~" He pointed out, thumbing over the back of England's knuckles.

"You're here to liberate France and defeat the Nazi's, actually."

"Meh, details. Here..." He gently tugged the scissors out of England's other hand, dropping his grip to run his own fingers through England's hair. He could feel England's wary stare, felt the way the other tensed up, like a wild cat, unsure whether to bolt or not. America chuckled slightly at the comparison, and felt England scowl.

"What are you doing, you git?"

"Finding a good piece to...ah!" He chirped, twirling a particularly wild strand through his fingers. "I'm not the only one who needs a haircut." England didn't comment, he was too busy trying not to wince as America's inexperienced hands thumbed through his hair as though it were a particularly heavy book.

"You're going to rip it out, give me the scissors." America complied, smirking smugly as England pocketed the locks America had bestowed to him. He didn't say anything. He could be considerate...when he wanted to be. He was also too focused on watching England, how his shirt rode up over the small of his back when he angled to attack his hair, and how he stuck his tongue out whilst concentrating.

America had never noticed before.

Perhaps he should have...

"Here." Once again, England cut him off, a lock of hair between them. "Be careful, it's the New Forest." America arched an eyebrow.

"What, this piece of hair and not your eyebrows?" He goaded, laughing as he was rewarded with a slap on the arm, then another for good measure. "Alright, alright! I give, I'm sorry!"

England scoffed, twisting round to rummage through his sewing kit, pulling out a piece of thread whilst he spoke. "Honestly, I hope you don't break so easily in front of Germany." He wrapped the thread around his hair, as one would with flowers, and cut the thread with his teeth and a sharp jerk of his wrist.

"Hah, heroes don't break." America replied, reaching up and taking the neat package, fingers brushing halfway. Their eyes met, and England was the first to look away, ashamed or embarrassed America couldn't tell. "...Arthur..."

"You'll need to sweep this up." England interrupted, pulling away and gesturing to the floor, where the rest of America's hair lay.

"It's your house."

"It is your hair." England pointed out, unable to stop the little smirk of amusement at the small victory.

America pouted. "...heroes don't sweep..." He added in vain.

"They do if they want a place to stay." England reached over, gingerly picking up Texas. He hesitated this time, as if realising that before he had been far too familiar, but America leant forward, angling his head with an expect smile in play, and England rolled his eyes. "Spoilt."

"You love it."

England didn't reply, but slipped the glasses on regardless, adjusting them minimally before pulling back. "There." He said with a small quirk of his lips. "Fit for running up beaches."

"And killing Nazis."

England nodded. "And killing Nazis."

The silence hung then, thick and oppressive. America twirled the hair, watching the ashen blond catch the dusty light, before sighing and tucking it into his breast pocket. "I feel like we're in one of your old fairy tales, trading locks of hair." America paused, then a slow grin worked its way across his lips. "Then again, you do see unicorns, does that make you my maiden, Artie~?"

"Arthur," He corrected automatically. Then he glowered. "I am no one's maiden."

"Damsel?" America offered.

"No."

"Either way," America sighed as he stretched, standing up and running a hand through his slightly damp hair. "With this here, I'll be bulletproof~" He declared, tapping the pocket he'd slipped England's hair into. England rolled his eyes, standoffish as usual, but there was a small, barely discernable smile on his lips, and to America, that was better than any victory in Europe.


End file.
